


Cold Blooded

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Crowley refuses to wrap up.On purpose.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94





	Cold Blooded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



Crowley would not admit it, but he did this on purpose. The first few times it had been the Rule of Cool (specifically no matter how Cold it is, it is always better to look… Cool) and he had absolutely refused to change his current attire to match the conditions. 

He had nothing against gloves in general, just in… current. There was a period when he wouldn’t have been seen without them. (Or risk disgrace.) Others where it had been physically beneficial. Ones where it had been risque and bad-boy. And right now… eh. The connotations to something unpleasant just meant he couldn’t. 

It was not because of what happened _after_.

The angel was a mini furnace. Either he organised his metabolism to exude heat to burn off some of the calories he readily consumed, or he was just… always the perfect temperature. As he hadn’t kept his body as slender as once it had been (which Crowley actually _liked_ ), he suspected it was less of him trying to find a biological equilibrium and more that he enjoyed being just as comfortable as he could make himself.

They would get back to the shop, or the flat, and various and sundry layers of ephemera would be peeled back from his companion’s form. Protective armour, peeled back in private. Only he got to see the sleeves fully rolled back, the reading glasses pushed up into hair and forgotten. 

And invariably, upon the ritual making of tea (or, more likely after the offer of tea had been made; cocoa) and the ritual token refusal to partake (pointless, when the angel had his mind made up), Aziraphale would place a mug in his hands and chide him mercilessly over his cold digits.

The mug would be too warm to hold right away, and he would be faced with the prospect of the angel pushing his palms together and rubbing his own over the backs of his hands, or stuffing them into Aziraphale’s armpits as he was scolded and scrunched and stroked back to room temperature. 

(A few times, he’d been forcibly swaddled in blankets that smelled of fruit cake and old books, and he’d bleated pathetically and then refused to let said blankets be removed from him.)

Crowley could never - would never - ask for care and attention.

No.

But he… _could_ act in ways which gave an avenue for such attention. If. You know. He was sneaky enough.

He just hoped fashion remained as impractical as it currently did, not that Aziraphale would truly notice if he didn’t change too quickly.

Then he could be bundled up in pale tartan and warm angel hugs that little bit longer.


End file.
